Twilight Realm
by the-lazy-ant164
Summary: -SEQUEL to Darkness in the Light- After the battle, Prowl had to try and rebuild the city from scratches, Soundwave returned from his hideaway to rejoin the war but with a change of heart, and as Megatron and his Decepticons grew stronger by day, while Orion is traumatized, they had to carry the Autobots by themselves. What would they encounter, and how would they get through?
1. Chapter 5 - Part 1

_**Author's notes: **_for those of you who are just here for the first time, this is **_not_** a stand-alone, but rather a sequel of my previous work, "Darkness in the Light", which you can find through my account, or simply through copying this URL and paste it after "...net" in your browser:

/s/13085938/1/Darkness-in-the-Light

Hence the reason why the story starts at chapter 5, to pick up from chapter 4 from the last one.

If you decide to proceed anyway, then this work won't make much sense to you, since most of its material is taken from the first one, where I basically reinvent the TF universe into a semi-AU that, eventhough is based mostly on authentic materials, is reintepreted in a completely different manner. Though if you wish to continue whatsoever, I hope it won't be too confusing for you to catch up, as I will try to put myself in the position of a new reader everytime I write a chapter.

For those of you who are already familiar with my first work, as promised, I've returned after 2 months. I'm sincerely honoured that you deem my work worthy of following up until now, and as so I would try my very best to make it even better. I really hope you will enjoy it!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own anything except for my OC, plot, ideas, etc, nor do I profit from anything.

* * *

CHAPTER 5

#Peace before the Storm

PART 1

#Return

"Okay, I've been walking forever, and my peds are killing me! When will we finally get there, Bossbot?" Inquired an agitated Rumble, for what could've easily passed for the hundredth time despite his previous unyielding attempts.

"Oh, for the love of Primus, would you knock it off? You're basically whining like a three-vorn-old sparkling, so either cut the crap, or be scrapped!" Frenzy, with his dual piledrivers charged, stood in his red counterpart's path like a menace, unsaid challenge ringing aloud.

"Oh, you want a fight? Well then, come get it! I've been itching for one forever!" Copying his sibling's gesture, the mech crouched down low, ready to pound on the other mech at any given moment.

_Rumble and Frenzy: cease and desist._

"Yikes!" Both mecha jumped in surprise at their creator's unexpected telepathic interruption, the fact that it was disembodied and ethereal adding a certain haunted quality to the originally deep tremble emitted from his unique vocalizer only served to unsettle the two flinchy mecha even further. Seemingly satisfied with the temporary peace and thoroughly committed to enjoying it while it still lasted, the mech in question stepped forward and took the lead without so much as a turn of the helm, leaving his two smaller minions scurrying with their not-so-lengthy peds to catch up. Up above the sky, Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw shared amused cackles as they perched themselves on the master communicator's left and right shoulder pads respectively, crooking their helm aside to observe their fellow siblings' rigorous effort at not being left behind. Needless to mention, the two humanoid creations were _pissed_.

"Hey! How come they get to land on your shoulders and we don't? Where's the equality in that?" Rumble demanded, optics glaring daggers at the two flyers, who, obviously, were quite enjoying themselves, if their feigned sympathetic helmshakes was of any indication.

"Most importantly, how can you just ignore us and walk on like that? Come on, we didn't get Ravage's agility hind peds in our schematics, or operational wingspans for that matter! We only get this… ugly… _tube_, on both of our servos, and what, you expect us to match your speed?" Frenzy called after his master, whom, unsurprisingly, had left a considerably great distance between them that their incessant whining was of a volume minimal enough to be tuned out. As currently, the mech was rather more interested in observing his surroundings, especially so after being underground for nearly 3 megacycles. The metal path they were treading on was still in new condition, though the horrendous acid rain just a megacycle ago had done quite a number on it, for the corrosion was still taking place, and rust flakes crumbled under their weight wherever their peds made contact with. Besides sticking to crevices and transformation seams, the problem was barely serious enough to actually represent risk of infrastructure collapse, though it did earn him quite an audio-receptor-ful of complaints from Ravage whose perfectly maintained paintjob was, as he had so tactfully put it, "been damned beyond salvation". Of course, he himself did not favour upsetting any of his creations if he could help it, but with the entire city state of Iacon in ruins, this was the best he could manage.

A droplet of acidic precipitation hit his vents, sizzling in his ultra-sensitive audio receptors, causing the mech to take a brief pause in his steps. Ever since that battle, acid rains have been torrenting down on the entire planet ruthlessly, as if Primus, in his wrath of witnessing his own creations battling and decimating one another, decided that they were no longer worthy of living on his forged planet, and so was putting in any attempt to completely wipe their race out of existence. Fortunately, he had the forethought to equip every of his creations, alongside himself, with Shockwave's brilliant invention of a personal force field. Activating the gadget, the mech welcomed the ticklish sensation of an electrical buzz coursing through the outer plating of his frame, before the acidic burn was replaced by a cool, healing numbness. Checking around to see his minions doing the same, the mech resumed his walk, though more mindful of every step, should the acid eat away at a vulnerable structural conjunction.

It had been only 3 megacycles since the scientist had done that experiment on him, but in a way it had felt like vorns, as if he had always had it, and the lack of it now would only unsettle him rather than make him feel any better. He was still self-conscious, and would still continue to yearn for a normal faceplate in probably a long time to come, but the comfortable sensation of just _knowing_ what others around him are scheming about had long integrated into his life and become nothing more but an extended section of his personal musing. Yet, for the entirety of the time he had spent with the telepathic add-on, he had only been surrounded by his cassettes, those whom he knew dear and called his own, whose deepest secret he was entrusted with, and tight-bonding relationship cherished, unlike many others he had put up with for the sake of diplomacy, first while in the arena, then later when serving in Megatron's army. He never felt at ease with anymech else other than his own minions, and they, likewise, shared the exact same sentiments. Hence, his telepathy still needed further practice, whether he liked it or not, because only unless he was going back to the abominable scientist's lair for another non-consensual experiment with the off-chance that the mentally unstable mech would find the goodness in his spark to somehow remove the telepathy – if that was even possible - and replace it with his own faceplate, which was entirely, thoroughly and undoubtedly unlikely, not to mention his absolute objection, then it would stick with him for good, and he'd rather having mastered it sooner than later in the war when every mistake could cost him his life.

The faint muttering of a foreign processor registered in his net, and the mech finally let out a vent of relief. Unlatching his chest compartment, he ejected his most senile creation, the cassette projecting gracefully through the air in a perfect arc while the transformation sequence activated until it landed on the ground on all four peds under the form of his feline minion, Ravage. Displaying distaste for the crumbling rust flakes under his peds, the creature growled at his two bipedal siblings who scurried behind Soundwave's peds for protection, while the beast grinned, amused with asserting dominance over co-creations he deemed lower than himself. Rather than letting their supposedly friendly sibling rivalry devolve into an outright war of dentas and talons, Soundwave interrupted.

"Ravage: eject. Operation: scout, determine hostility, acquire permission for entrance." Acknowledging his task with a quick nod, the feline slipped into the cover of the night, his every steps as soft as feather on cusion, slim form disapeared from optic sight to melt as one with the shadow as the mech carried out his mission in discretion unrivaled. Waiting until the menace was a safe distance away, the red humanoid mech shouted into the dark where he was certain the feline wasn't anywhere close.

"Hah! Run like a little organic kitty, you smug freak! I swear, one of these cycles…

"Wait! We aren't making an explosive entrance? But what about all those detpacks I've built? You can't be serious, Bossbot!" Exclaimed the blue mech, disappointment overshadowing his faceplate.

"Infiltration mission: negative. Impulsive behaviour: unadvisable."

"Wait, wha-

But by the time Frenzy was coming up with a retort, the mech had already tuned him out to extend a tendril of his telepathy – a practice he had been able to master after a few cycles of trailing his creations – to wrap around the processor of his dispatched minion, quickly analyzing every intel the feline was able to collect on his reconnaissance mission. From the creature's night vision, every small corner and alley of Iacon city was revealed beyond his optics, scenario unchanging as ruins after indiscernible ruins follow after one another. Smolten debris, collapsed buildings and suffocating smoke could best describe a war-torn Iacon, and everywhere his creation went, greyed-out frames of deactivated mecha yet to be attended to littered the ground, either in whole or in pieces depending on the amount of damage their unfortunate owners sustained before their sparks finally gave out, spilt puddles of blue Energon since long evaporated to leave behind a trail of grey, lifeless residual bearing little resemblance to the vital blue life-giving substance it used to be. As the mech neared the source of the foreign thought, such occurrences of mass massacre became less and were replaced by occasional temporary tents set up in a hurry, whose interior furnishing suggested either to house homeless mecha or to tend to those with grave injuries. The first appearance of a half-rebuilt building was fairly close to the center of the city, signifying the mass concentration of survivor mecha closeby, and just as he expected, Ravage found the owner of said thought in an Enforcer guarding post just a few blocks from there.

"Target found. What do you want me to do, Boss?" The feline crept by the unlit part of a semi-sturdy wall, optics trailing his prey unrelenting and unwavering for even an astroklick.

"Operation: attempt communication. Conviviality: advisable."

"What!? You want me to be friendly!?" The mech almost growled back, forcing Soundwave to clamp his telepathic tendril shut on his minion's vocalizer, a neat trick he learnt coincidentally by willing Rumble to shut up once, which, to his dismay, actually worked.

So, being controlled - and literally manipulated, Primus forbid – by a telepath meant Ravage didn't get much choice in the matter. So the mech trodded silently across the short distance to the stranger, taking great care not to bare his acute dentas or sharp talons for fear of evoking responses to aggression and possible threat, and particularly in an illuminated area where the dual moons' ray were reflected off a panel of glass so as not to appear too suddenly from the dark and run risk of startling the other mech. Yet, his attempts were in vain, because just as he extracted himself from the cover of the dark, the guard headed back inside his post to converse with another fellow Enforcer, totally unaware of the approaching mech while his back was facing the entrance.

The other mech, though, was much more perceptive, and he noticed straight away the presence of the quadpedal mech, something that would slip most others' notice. And though most would pass it for an anonymous cyberrat scurrying unsuspiciously through the night, that specific mech would never. Not with all of his processing might, and especially not so after he he had been discretely spying on the creature ever since its entourage reached the outskirt of the city state.

For the mech was the only one who could truly understand why the animalistic creature was conversing with what appeared to be no one other than himself the whole time, and so was the telepathically observing mech the only one to realize he had been spotted just by the mere reddish glimmer of a red chevrolet in the moons' shining aura.

"Hello, old friend."

* * *

P/s: anyone who had a suspicion that it was either Soundwave or Prowl as my centric in this one, then congratulations, you are both correct! I promise I won't drop Orion or his wonderful plotline anytime soon, as he will be introduced into this one a few chapters later.


	2. Chapter 5 - Part 2

PART 2

#Accountability

"Sir?" A timid voice called out from beyond his doors, its owner peaking an inquisitive glance into the glass panel. Looking up from his mountain of yet-to-be-filled reports, the mech sighed. "What is it?"

"It's the damage report you asked for. Oh, and the board also has something to say." The mech, seemingly realizing that the glass panel wasn't one-way and he is indeed being met optic-to-optic with the famous Chief Enforcer himself, was startled out of his trance and quickly diverted his gaze, his helm whipping aside too fast that his chevrolet impacted on the door's surface, making Prowl, after countless times of being object to the same bodily dysfunction and experiencing first-handedly how traumatizing that could be, winced in understanding.

"Ouch… sorry, sir. My mistakes, sir. Here, the report—Oof!" The mech, in his hurry to scramble across the spacious quarter, bumped his peds into Prowl's working desk, doubling over the surface in an act of total humiliation that even the stoic, calm and forever composed tactician couldn't help but sympathize with.

"Easy, soldier. Take your time." Contrary to his icy tone, a profered servo was extended, and the fallen mech took it graciously. Hefting the similarly-built mech back on his peds, Prowl retrieved the dropped datapad lying on the ground by himself before allowing the clumsy cadet another chance at unintentionally harming himself.

"Erhm… sorry, sir. I'll just… get out of your hair now, sir. Sorry to be a nuisance to your valuable time, sir."

"No need." Prowl placed a comforting servo on his shoulder pad and gestured to the cushion chair opposite his desk. "Take a seat and make yourself comfortable. This shall not take longer than half a klick at best."

"Ehrm… if you insist, sir." The mech, though tried as he might to conceal the unspoken relief at Prowl's suggestion, he couldn't prevent his facial features from practically expressing pure ecstacy as he flopped down to the chair without a single nanoklick's delay. Settling down in his own backrest, the mech began picking up the datapad to start reading, but yet again his work was disturbed.

"Sir, I know this is probably unprofessional and inappropriate, not to mention completely out of ranks… but since you don't use it anyway, can I have some?" The mech pointed to his Energon dispenser in a corner, still filled to the brim with his ration from somewhere the previous decacycle, forgotten as a result of his hectic work schedule. "I am kind of running low on fuel here…"

"Please, do help yourself, and try to refrain from interrupting me while I'm in the midst of trying to complete my work here, as you probably can see." The tactician grumped, his patience for a fellow model-build shorted out to be replaced with irritation and annoyance. Determined not to be distracted from his data any longer, the mech tuned down the sensitivity of his audio receptors and let the background chatter of the subordinate comrade fade into oblivion as his sole attention focused on the datapad on servo.

The definition of time meant nothing to the mech while he was in full mental capacity, and before Bluestreak had even stopped rambling, he had gone over the entire content of the 72-tetrabyte long datapad over and over again for at least the sixth time, still yet to fully comprehend its meaning.

He had been chosen to become the temporary Autobot leader.

"… and that, was how my daily ration was stolen right in front of me without my knowledge! Can you believe how unfair that was? Err, sorry, I believe I've just disturbed you again, sir. So, anyway, the mech…"

Though his audio reception was registering total silence, inside his helm disarrayed thoughts were deafening with the weight of the situation: 16 million mecha. That same 16 million mecha who would never get to see the glorious Cybertronian sunrise ever again, their lives brought to an abrubt end along with the fall of Iacon. Comprising of which was 3 million comrades from the force who he led to their own untimely deactivation that cycle, another 7 million from the blessedly ignorant and clueless citizens whom they were obligated to protect at all cost, and a total of 5 million mecha and femmes alike who were ready to sacrifice their life for the rebuild of their home planet under the united stance of the supposedly noble and righteous Autobot cause. All for the last million - those who represented their entire society's dysfunctional system - to be annihilated to the very last one; all for the only city state they held dear and cherished as a beloved home to be reduced to nothing but a pile of rubble and smolten slag. They didn't just lose the war to the Decepticons, to another glorified affiliation rising up from the remnants of a corrupted government; they also failed their own planet, their own kin, their own brothers and sisters whose trust they envalued deeply. And now, when the common goal they all have been working towards so hard, when everything _he_ has once believed in crumbled underneath his peds like a shattered fantasy forever binding his spark within the pit of unrest turbulence, they pointed accusatory digits at him and left him to take the blame, to carry the duty of leadership, to be the representative faceplate whom generations of Cybertronians would associate with their greatest revulsion and abhorrence as he led them onwards to meet their own downfall.

Feeling a distinct mental meltdown imminent, he terminated his thought process completely and snapped back into the protective shell he had been practising much lately. "Get out of my room."

"Wha-

"GET OUT! _I_ _said_ GET OUT OF MY ROOM, NOW!"

The scared cadet wasted no time, and in the next blink of an optic, he was all alone again in his empty, spacious quarter, the sterile white walls not any less imposing and harsh as they were lifeless and inanimate the nanoklick before. Dropping his helm into his servos, the mech welcomed the soothing sensation of the mental crash washing over him like a wet blanket, taking away all the bitterness that made up his pathetic excuse of an existence and replacing them with complete numbness, however long that fragile mercy could last.

* * *

"Officer, take a look at this." A secondary cadet informed as the door swished closed automatically behind him.

"What is it?" Snapped an iritated Prowl. "I believe your matter is of utmost urgency, but as I've informed the board before, I don't have time for-

"Just take a brief look at this report first, would you?" At the insistance of the officer, he let out a resigned whiff of intake. "Fine."

The mech practically grouched, flopping informally down onto the leather seat exclusively reserved for higher-ranking comrades visiting Prowl's personal quarter, and just as the mech was about to reprimand his subordinate, the flashing beacon on the datapad caught his attention.

It was a tracker, the symbol indicated by a red triangle proved its target to be one worthy of Prowl's examination himself. Currently, it was closing in on the perimeter of Iacon, along with a cluster of other energy signatures unfamiliar to the tracking device. Instantly, battle programming kicked in, and the mech's tactical planner whirred to life loudly in the background of his helm.

"Activate defense protocol. Charge the turrets and overshield. Target ground or aerial?"

"4 ground units and 2 flight-capable, though they've been maintaining the same altitude with each other since discovered."

"Attempt to communicate?"

"Awaiting for permission, sir."

Prowl took another glance at the symbol, meanwhile running over thousands of possibilities inside his helm trying to find a match. "Don't make any radio contact just yet. They might not be aware of our location yet."

"Copy, sir. Anything else?"

"You are dismissed for now. Keep the forces updated on these intruders, and under no circumstances are caution not to be exercised."

"Copy, sir. Good off-cycle, sir." The mech pivoted on his heels and left the room, returning blessed silence to its occupant and his musing. So far, the extended list of offensive targets have been cross-referenced, and yet no possible matches have been spotted, though that was hardly unexpected due to the Decepticon's inactivity recently. The very Omega-level nature of the beacon eliminated any chance of it being a friendly force, and as so, it can only be of Neutral affiliation. Though the reason why their spark-signature scanner would recognize an anonymous Neutral was beyond him or his upgraded processing prowess. Feeling his helm heating up, the mech hastily powered down the add-on to prevent another very likely helmache and possibly a mental crash, resigning to inspect the target by himself with a few good old detective tricks.

The mech stood up from his comfortable backrest and established a radio link while moving into his private dwelling area. ::You there?::

After a few nanoklicks of silence that seemingly would stretch on for eternity, the radio buzzed briefly in short bursts of static before clearing out. ::Always ready for ya. So what's it now?::

::I've sent you the target coordinates. Follow them-

::And provide visual relay, as well as audio if possible. Got it, same old everytime. Anythin' else?::

::Not for the moment. Oh, and if you could help it, discretion would be recommended.::

::Ah always am.::

* * *

Cutting off the transmission, the white mech jumped down from his perch in a graceful somersault, his movement a perfectly executed arch, to land on a high vintage point, his peds making contact with metallic ground with absolute silence. Stretching his backstrut to earn a few satisfying pops and clicks, the mech straightened himself and activated his internal map. With a split-astroklick glimpse only millenium-old espionage training and expertise would've allowed plausible, the mech gave a lopsided smirk before shutting it, returning to night vision as he opened a direct link back to Prowl to transmit his current target of interest, smug satisfaction colouring his voice simulator. ::Already been trailing 'em even 'fore you asked.::

In front of him, the crew of mecha kept moving forwards, totally unaware of his relentless watch over them. Neither did they register his stealthy peds on the ground as the master spy began picking up pace, his target solely on the nocturnal creature dispatched ahead, impressed with finally meeting a formidable counterpart, the unsettling nausea inside the pit of his tanks temporarily forgotten.

* * *

Prowl made his way across the hall in quick strides, pedsteps even more rushed with every nanoklick past. His visual feeds had already confirmed his suspicion, and also his biggest fear and concern altogether. Stuffing all burning questions and illogical flaw of the matter in a corner of his processor, the mech let it fuel his speed and thus moved even quicker to the nearest entrance port leading outside the Enforcer's base of operations, curtly ignoring any fellow comrade bumping into him on his way. Earning quite a few resentful glares his way, the mech brushed it all aside in favor for his one and only target in mind, determined to let nothing be an impediment between them. By the end of the next klick, he was practically sprinting across the war-strucken streets of Iacon, throwing any caution whatsoever to the wind and letting a rush of adrenaline overtaking his common senses, the loudly objecting tactical planner long deactivated and forgotten, and for the first time since that very off-cycle back in the Sea of Rust, he felt overwhelming emotions turbuling inside his helm. Always a mech of rationalization and logical reasoning, his disturbed mental state surprised himself, and even more so was his sparkmate.

::Woah woah, calm down mech! What's wrong with cool and calm Prowl? Why are ya getting your helm all in a gutter today?:: Cackled to life after some static burst was Jazz's comm, reminding the mech that every single one of his thoughts and feelings was being transmitted to the mech the whole time without him consciously setting up his shield. Normally, he would take a klick to cool himself off and come up with some cover-up for the slip of judgement, but at the moment he could't care less about his partner whom was getting more disturbed by the nanoklicks.

::Prowl?::

Shutting his friend out of his mind, the mech brought up his map to check on the location of the intruders, the closest of whom to his location was only a good 2 mechano miles away. Making a transformation mid-air, he landed on the 4 wheels of his alt-mode, speeding away without a moment's hesitation.

* * *

"Hey you! Who do think you are? You can't just go out here-Chief Officer! May I ask what business are you attending to all the way out here without prior notice, sir?" The unfortunate mech on duty that off-cycle quickly realized his mistake, and while trying to plaster on the most sincere smile possible, was criticizing himself internally for how foolish of him to have addressed the Chief in such an insubordinate manner - all the while committing the casual-looking appearance of said officer's alt-mode into his databanks for fear of making the end of his short-lived law-enforcement career - tried to start a conversation as natural as possible. Prowl, on the other servo, still in the middle of his transformation sequence, paid no attention to the mech's mistake, his rushed strides closing in on the mech quicker than the time it took for him to regain his bearings.

"Good off-cycle to you too, soldier. Owing to certain reasons, which I cannot disclose further due to our differences of security clearance, I will be personally taking post of this station starting from this joor to the end of next shift tomorrow's dawn. On account of the suddenness of this occurrence, there was little time available to allow any prior notice possible, so you would have to take me by my words. If such is not enough, then you can, and have the right to, report my misbehaviour to your direct superiors, but as for the moment I'm afraid I would have to request that you leave the post and return to the main base this instance." Prowl intoned without leaving the mech any chance to reply, and with the intentional raise of an irritated optical ridge, successfully persuaded him to leave without further ado.

"Erhm… okay, sir. Good off-cycle to you too, sir." The young, inexperienced and very intimidated mech quickly made himself scarce, to which Prowl must accredit his authority for getting the job done efficiently, eventhough he didn't appreciate the abuse of his position as much. Yet, the ethical integrity of his moral code must wait, for the object of interest had appeared on the rim of his night vision. And though he could not truly see or feel the presence of the other mech directly, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the mech was also watching him just as much as he would be able to hear him if he so chose to vocalize anything.

And more out of a will to dissipate the tingling doubt that whatever illusion he was under would soon reveal itself to be a fragment of his imagination rather than for the sake of an actual conversation, Prowl made the initiative to speak up.

"Hello, old friend."

Yet, unbeknownst to him, on the other side of their forgotten and much neglected sparklink, his sparkmate was taking just as much of the brunt of the emotional weight conveyed alongside with it as was the two actively involved parties. Neither did he knew how the seemingly so simple and plain greeting would be the eventual curse to spark the heart of conflict that would eventually push him to the spark-breaking point when one would part and one would stay.

Without any preamble, they all knew their predicament was not one of any positivity, but rather a bleak tunnel stretching on eternally without a single ray of light, a realm forever shrouded in twilight darkness, one where a tragic ending was the only certainty unvariable from the beginning.


	3. Chapter 5 - Part 3

PART 3

#Hooked

"Ehrm… hi?" The totally clueless feline replied awkwardly from being caught dead like a cyberdeer in the helmlight. Yet to decide on a specific course of action between flight or fight instinctive responses, the mech froze up in place, his joints rigid and posture stiff. Realizing his discomfort, Prowl extended his servo in what classified, in his definition at least, as a friendly offering, to which the animalistic mech did not take to very well.

"Bossbot? Soundwave! You there?" Despite his frantic calling, the other end of his radio transmission was a complete, utter silence, for the mech in question had his attention focused solely on the Chief Enforcer ever since he registered first distinctive sparkle of the nolstagic red chevrolet across the other's forehelm. If that wasn't concrete evidence enough, the mech's familiar vocalizer and the unmistakable intonation all but confirmed the identity of whom he was seeing through his minion's optics, and without further ado the animal-former was soon released hold of the telepathic strand in favor of the new arrival.

"_You left me_."

Rather than allow himself to be startled into oblivion like the base reaction of every ordinary mech not suspecting a telepathic projection to suddenly announce its existence inside their helm with a loud, thunderous boom that left reverberating resonance on the nape of his helm a few nanoklicks after its wake, Prowl took a moment to steel his emotions and compose himself back together in one piece before calling on his inner stoicism of vorns of professional stress training to reply with the most steady voice he could manage, which was another way of saying barely not trembling and coherent at a push.

"You shouldn't be alive."

"_I am because somebody got me out of there."_ Even with his infamous mechanical monotone, Soundwave managed to accentuate the sentence in a way that its entire stress fell on the subject pronoun – whoever it had been, Prowl understood entirely the conveyed message about them not being him.

"I looked for you and didn't find you." In a rush to cover up his defense, Prowl made the mistake of replying too soon.

"_3 cycles after you left, draining me of all my reserves and depriving me of my only functional energy core." _Without outright saying, they became the accuser and accused of a failed unintentional attempt at murder which neither parties could deny their respective roles in, and if possible leadening Prowl's conscience with even more guilt as he faced down the victim from the crime of his own doing.

"I apologize." To most, such a simple statement wouldn't carry much weight at all, but it was even more meaningful coming our of his vocalizer than any carefully-crafted excuses his tactical planner and logic circuits – those that not only function competently, but also outstandingly smooth – can ever be. Never before had his sparkmate even heard of him accepting fault over his part before let alone vocalizing any apology of any sort, mostly because his spotless processor would never authorize a faulty plan to be executed in the first place, and also because he had always been a mech of fewer words and more action. He had always looked down upon the sincerity behind every apology and their encompassed meaning altogether, as a practical step to correctify the imprecision would always be a further step towards efficiency than a time-consuming and ego-brusing admittance of failure. Yet, it wasn't the actual verbalizing of the word that won Soundwave over, but rather the redemption underneath it that the telepath felt and understood was as truthful as his attempts in recovering the mech's frame the next 4 decacycles straight. Hence, Prowl exvented a huff of air in extreme relief when the mech proposed.

"_Request: entrance to city state."_

-0-0-0-

"This, as you can see, is our main operation base."

Prowl paused before a large hangar, reinforced with an assortment of various fractured building material, from the typical construction-grade titanium to the average steel sheets, all nailed to the surrounding walls and ceilings in what seemed like an attempt to prevent the entire structure from collapsing right then and there. The typical design of the building, which Soundwave recognized from his databanks, revealed its origin to be a repurposed storage warehouse, though such commodities at the moment would be no longer of any use anyway. Making some mental calculation, Soundwave decided it would be best not to remain under those unsteady-looking area for longer than absolutely necessary, and made an effort to proceed with haste, after ushering his cassettes inside first. Either not noticing the gesture or plainly ignoring it, Prowl continued unaffected.

"We make due with the best we can after the destruction of the battle." Though his vocalizer neither rose nor deepened another notch, Soundwave understood the underlying message with the mech's pointed look sent in his direction. "I can't assure how much longer these temporary repairs would hold, though we currently don't have either the resources or the mechpower to start rebuilding actual decent headquarters." Taking on a less accusatory tone, the mech continued. "I hope we can accommodate you and your fellow…

"Minions." Soundwave added, in spite of his cassettes' disgrunted displeasure at being addressed as his subordinate.

"… with whatever we can manage at the time being. Though I doubt anywhere will be better than here, unless it's some uncharted Neutral territory – highly unlikely if I may add – or the Decepticons' conquered land." Nodding his agreement, Soundwave quickened his pace to follow the mech, meanwhile pretending not to notice the hostile thoughts nearby mecha were harbouring for him and his "band of misfits" as they called them. He didn't miss the piqued curiousity of Prowl himself as he mentioned his previous affiliation, to which he curtly replied with a telepathic dismissal. The mech said nothing more of the matter, to his relief, and they both moved onwards.

Soon, they were arriving at the end of the large hangar, and to Soundwave's surprise, to a long hallway stretching ahead, with many splits branching from the sides. Similar to the hangar, it was in less than desirable shape, but at least this section didn't tremble with his every pedsteps. Throwing his reluctance aside, the mech walked casually side by side with the tactician, allowing his subordinates time to catch up.

Prowl attempted to hide his amused smirk at the bipedal cassettes' as they raced each other to the end of the long hallway, yet such proved fruitless in the presence of a telepath. "Rumble, Frenzy: return."

While the two appeared visibly stumped with the order, Ravage snickered behind, bring Prowl's attention back to him. "You were quite the stealthy spy out there, mech. We definitely could use someone like you in our ranks." He offered, consciously trying not to be too desperate, but the bleak bled into his vocalizer didn't go unheard, earning both the telepath and the quadpedal's wary looks.

"Of course, I am not forcing anything on you; you are still considered Neutrals seeking for shelter at the moment, as we are obliged to provide Energon and medical care to anyone who agreed to register. You would be carrying out manual labour in exchange for your earn of fuel, and the contract can end anytime you leave if you so choose to, though there would be a limit to your ration, as well as security clearance and knowledge disclosure. In fact, most workers on base right now are Neutrals applying for the exact same policy." Prowl never once ceased his steady pedfalls, though Soundwave can feel anxiety rolling off him in waves. He wanted them to join his ranks, partly because any information disclosure would be practically useless against him, but mostly because their numbers were so depleted. Ravage growled softly under his vent, though Soundwave knew he was also musing over the terms offered. The mech literally jumped at the opportunity to be let free around base, and he was having difficulty restraining himself from shivering with anticipation when the idea of being allowed – even encouraged – to play stealth got thrown into the mix.

"What if we actually _join_ you?" Soundwave asked aloud for his minions' benefits, as he himself already heard Prowl rehearsing over and over again how best to persuade them to join him ever since the tour began. As if waiting only for this opportunity, the mech swiveled a hundred-and-eighty on the tip of his heels to face them, going to a full stop in the middle of the crowded hallway despite others' annoyed glance. _One of the pros of being Chief Officer_, he hazarded a guess.

"You would gain full access and the right to utilize to any facility we have here, from our shooting ranges to the entertainment area. Not only would you be priviledged to a minimum of 30% more income than the average Neutral's contracted wage, our generous reserves would be at your disposal to loan at anytime if you can prove your capability of paying it off within a maximum of 18 megacycles." Laserbeak and Buzzsaw raised their beaks at the mention of fresh Energon, eliciting a chuckle from the navy mech. Satisfied with the attention he now possessed, Prowl swiveled to walk onwards, his vocalizer kept on relaying information like a verbal brochure to some fancy resort. "Daily check-up and maintenance service would be entirely free of charge along with any accompanying add-ons, and you gain freedom of pursuing any preferred field of labour in your service to the force. Needless to mention, you would be provided with an accomodation correspondent to your position within the Enforcer's private quarter, and such luxuries as personal washing racks and Energon dispensor are but the fewest improvements from the standard resting berths in the Neutrals' quarters."

"Bossbot! You gotta take up the offer! The grimes have been sticking between my transformation seams for cycles now!" Frenzy piped up, to which Ravage purred his agreement, stamping his soft paws onto the ground as if to display the imaginary gravel wedged between his spotless claws to back up his statement, making Prowl's optics actually shone a bit brighter with victorious joy. _Bastard._

"You would gain the security clearance to be present at both the Enforcers' and Autobots' campaign meeting correspondent to your ranks, and would be priviledged to our newest intelligence we can gather on our enemies' forces, which can be the key factor to survival in times of war like these. Not only so, but you would also be equipped with the standard weaponry, another mean for you to protect yourselves against any hostility approaching, crucial in such social unrest of our society as of late." Soundwave knew he was hooked when Prowl started speaking about the safety of him and his cassettes, and even without telepathy he knew the mech had been intentionally building up to it all along. Evidential was how Prowl stopped in front of a smaller hallway with multiple closed doors on both sides, with a not-so-subtle sign reading "Enforcers' quarter" overhelm. _Smug bastard._

"_Where can I sign up, then?"_


	4. Chapter 5 - Part 4

PART 4

#Brief

Slowing down to a stop before a large double door, Prowl turned his optics to him. "This would be your private quarter. Though you all are privileged to owning your own quarters each if you so choose to join us, I highly doubt any of you would prefer spliting up, so a divided single condo might suit you best."

Not wasting any time, the mech typed something on his servo's datapad, and simultaneously the door was unlocked with a ping. "It can be remotely unlocked with the correct password, and though the security level may not be top-of-the-line, I assure you that without an at least competent hacker to override the circuits entirely, it would keep out 70% of the residents around here." Then he stepped into the room, not bother looking back to see if Soundwave and his minions are still following him, secured with the knowledge that they themselves at the mention of the dream suite had already been shivering with anticipation since the beginning of their tour, which wasn't that much far off from the truth if all the excitement assaulting his telepathic processor was of any indication.

Upon entrance, they were all slack-jawed as the spacious interior betrayed every conjection made from the average appearance of the door as observed from outside. Though not exactly silver and platinum-coated to every inch, the metallic shine of new, either unused or really, _really_ well-maintained furniture gave the impression of otherwise. Prowl wasn't bluffing when he described the Enforcers' living quarters like a chapter out of _"Iacon's most desired penthouse"_, in fact if anything was amiss from making the room a perfect rendition of a page in that dream catalogue then it would be the lack of colourful decorations, to which both Soundwave and his cassettes frowned upon. True to his words, at a corner stood an Energon dispensor with extra fine filtering added to eliminate dissolved metal and preserve the best purity of Energon as science would allow; a large holographic screen occupied the center of the room, with a comfortable matress-covered recliner made up the living area. From the far back was a screen separating the room from the wash racks, and smaller single doors around the walls led into what Soundwave assumed would be individual berthrooms. His creations quickly disappeared behind these doors while vocalizing rather loudly which room was their property, followed by moans of comfort as they tried out their personal berths, eliciting a chuckle from the stoic tactician and himself in response. With a large switch, Prowl turned on the energy, and light flooded the room down to every corner. Gesturing to the large armchair, he walked the length of the quarter to open the blinds, allowing surplus natural sunlight to trickle a soft golden hue onto every surface, effectively taking away his breath if he actually was an organic creature.

"Pretty impressive, isn't it?" He grinned, and still unable to form any cohesive respond yet, the telepath wordlessly nodded. "Well, don't get used to it so soon, because we still have plenty to discuss, now that your subordinates are preoccupied."

"What?" The idea of conversing while his creations weren't present immediately brought Soundwave back from the land of astonishment and crashing down hard on reality, his every senses coming to live with an alertness that tether somewhere on the verge of outright paranoia. Acknowledging this, Prowl calmly gestured to the recliner again, but turning to face him totally from his view of the window. "I assure you, it wouldn't devour you or spit acid at your backstrut while you are sitting on it." Realizing how his attempt at humour to disperse the tension only succeed in thickening it further, he groaned. "Oh, for Primus' sake, just… stand there where you feel comfortable, I'll sit on the fragging thing."

"So?" Soundwave asked warily, though his telephic abilities assured him that no malice intentions were responsible for Prowl's questionable behaviour. The fact that the mech decided to disclose whatever information without his creations around still stood to make him vigilant. As a token of trust, the mech let down his mental shield, and every thoughts storming around inside his hyper-clocked processor rushed over the prodding tendril and overwhelmed his every senses.

"_I actually notice you prying down my shield the whole trip, but I would much prefer to be behind private walls before gaining you access."_ The mech thought out loud rather than bothering with his vocalizer, which Soundwave soon realized to be his favourite way of communication with the telepath whenever only the two of them are involved. "Anyway, I would require your signature in this application form first, as standard protocols would have it." He unsubspaced a datapad and handed it over. "Take your time to go over the details of our contract, though I assure you there is nothing that I haven't mentioned in one way or another on our way here."

Sensing absolute honesty from the mech, Soundwave scrolled down to the bottom to apply his distinctive energy signature. "No need."

"Good. The less time wasted, the better. Energon?" The mech offered, as if to cover up his bubbling anxiety, but the futile motion was met with a curt decline. _"Anyway, you probably noticed I've all but dropped every formalities since we entered this room, and so did you, so I assume such is unnecessary, let's get it out of the way first, shall we?"_ His optics tinted with a foreign shade of blue Soundwave never saw before, signifying whatever about to be unleashed was no ordinary matter. Evidential enough was how the mech's thought process became intermingled with emotion, strongest and easiest to distinguish was desperation as it bled into his mental voice, and Soundwave no longer lingered from afar after realizing how serious the situation was. _"So, what've you learnt so far?"_

"_Everything you've thought of so far."_

"_Good. Then you've probably known about the damage and my… 'forced promotion' – for lack of a better term." _Soundwave nodded. _"Well, that's true, all of it. Everthing from the Decepticon's disappearance - speaking of which…_

"_We're not together anymore."_

"_I've gathered as much. Do I need to know the details?" _Meeting with a firm shake of the navy mech's helm, he continued. _"You being here is all the confirmation I need to clarify your current affiliation, though I'm afraid I might need further evidence or proof that you wouldn't relapse." _"Back to the other faction" remained unsaid.

"_My word. The time we spent together under that lab. Me hauling your frozen frame around despite my own risk of getting caught. "_

"_Nice try, though I may need a little more persuasion than that."_

"_Your judgement of character. Or, would you rather, your exact calculation and estimation of the probability that I would defect back to the other side based on my behavioural data you've collected and assessed up until now."_ This one hit the spot, and Prowl couldn't help but smirked. _"Very well then. Standard protocols would never have this, and I am more than certain I would never hear the end of it from the board if they ever find out, but well played."_

"I try." With his lack of a faceplate, Soundwave came up with a similar grin of his own: a tint of pleasure mixed into his actual voice.

"_Anyway, you may already notice this, but not every newcomers ready to sign a contract are admitted to a quarter of this size. The actual reason why you're here – and no it's not favouritism – is because we need a way to track the Decepticons, especially after they've gone absolute radio silent. Who's better to deal with that than their old communication officer?"_

"_Figured."_

"_I know you would. That alone makes you and your minions even more useful than half the leadership board up there, and I believe it would be unfair if you didn't receive the same treatment, or at least the treatment that a fellow Chief Officer would receive, for your possible contributions to the cause."_

Silence reigned for a while, until it finally kicked in.

"_You mean… this is __**your**__ suite?"_

"_I really don't need it; my office is sufficient enough for living purpose, and I wouldn't trust the flimsy lockpads to keep mecha out while I'm recharging. Besides, I owe you that much."_

Sensing total sincerity behind his words, Soundwave needed not ask again. _"The gesture is appreciated."_

"_Good. Back to business; tracking the Decepticons would be part of your responsibility, though not all, and definitely not the foremost. There would be duties for your little masterspy and smaller companions, so are you in accordance with dispatching them to run errands and deliver messages? I assure you there would be no danger whatsoever on these missions, and you can refuse at anytime if the task cause you or your team any discomfort."_

"_Affirmative."_

"_Now, your job. Of course, I do not want to take advantage of your… power, in any way, and you very much deserve the right not to cooperate if any of this offend or harm you, but I need to validate our ranks and make sure there are no nasty surprises."_ The way he said it cast an aura of trust palpable to even those without his ability, bringing forth a sensation of liability.

"_I expected as much. I will, but sometimes my presence can be intrusive, if not outright manipulative."_

"_And such is inevitable, so I'll take it. Other than that, your job is pretty much done. I'll establish a direct radio link between us. Whenever anyone question, tell them you are my direct subordinate and answer to me only. But I'd suggest stear clear of any high-ranking Officers and minimize socialization with the force as strictly as possible."_

"_Suggestion: stay inside this room until further notice?"_ He could easily read between the lines.

"_That would be highly desirable. Now then, what else would you like to know?"_

"_The outcome." _He didn't need to spell out the battle; they both understood.

"_Well, you heard right. With their numbers crushed and their morale deadened, the entire Autobot faction disbanded prematurely the moment the battle ended, and it took loads of effort just to reassure them that the Decepticons would least likely be attacking Iacon again anytime soon, let alone keeping them inside the city's perimeter. Even our force was greatly affected by the war; as I made the liberty to distribute our reserves and share it with the citizens, this place pretty much broke into an all-out riot asking for my helm on a pike led by the council themselves, and had it not been for eon-old experience of dealing with publicity crisis I wouldn't even manage to retain my pulsing spark, but as a direct consequence I was forced to keep my involvement with the great battle a secret. But whatever damage we Enforcers received was still a far cry from Iacon itself; nearly half of its population has been decimated, and almost not a single one left uninjured. We gathered them and provide shelter and medical care to the best of our abilities, though as you can see these are very limited. Rescue missions are still underway, as well as temporary rebulding of emergency facilities. Our teams are still scouring the remnants of the debris in hope of finding more survivors, though the possibility of such only dwindle as time stretched on. With how bleak the situation currently is, we would need all the help we can get."_

"_My minions would be happy to provide the service."_

"_Good. Primus know how desperate we are to get those." _He let out a vent of relief, shutting his cerulean optics and allowing his helm to drop lifelessly, like an exhausted mech finally getting the rest he deserved for decacycles straight. Thinking of the mental image, he realized that probably wasn't too far off from the truth, either.

"_So… how about this council that you speak so foul of? And the remains of the old High Council? Are they related?"_

"_Funny you should ask… The council I refer to is supposedly the main board of leadership for the force. Eventhough they are different by origins, their behaviour and desires are as like as diesel peas in an oil pod. They both demand everything for themselves while asserting dominance and absolute control over all others, but strive their best to push the actual responsibility and duty over to their prefered scapegoat."_

"_If I may hazard an assumption, that scapegoat would be you?"_

"_Precisely. They are the ones who put me in my place with the hope of turning me into one of their puppets, ready to be disposed of whenever my usefulness exceeds my own value. Of course, they were in for quite a surprise when they realized I wasn't just an ordinary power-lust mindless egotistic; my results from the academy pretty much won me the credentials needed to build up my own horde of proponents, and within just the first megacycle of making me Chief they realized their mistake. They've attempted to take me down endless times before, but I always outsmarted them by a hundred light years ahead." _He even sound smug if just a little bit, bringing a grin to Soundwave's speech pattern.

"I can imagine."

"_Of course, they soon learnt their position, though. Instead of trying to demote me, they now actively create as much trouble and mayhem as possible before framing it all on me with the aim of causing internal conflict between the ranks, which I must say is a pretty smart move. Now the tension is higher than ever, and without my timely retaliation I probably would succumb to their power play."_

"_What did you do?"_

"_Funny as it seems, I aggravate them even more." _Now Soundwave was thoroughly confused.

"_What else do you think? By liberalizing the Senate's reserves, of course! Despite the Councilmecha's – or at least, what remained of them – valiant effort at salvaging whatever resources for themselves, diplomatic words and meticulously crafted threats, let's just put it simply, doesn't have much effect on a horde of hungry, savage Iaconians. Add the bunch of refugees flocking together from other destroyed city states into the mix, and they pretty much outnumbered by hundredth to one to the combination of the entire Enforcers' ranks plus the Royal Guards themselves. Not to mention most of them already turned coats after the outcome of the battle – which I'm not judging anyhow – and fueled by the lost of their own comrades while watching first-handedly how the Council and Senate doesn't even bother to be concerned, it was just a matter of time before the miserable struggle died down entirely and the reserves were lost into our servos."_

"_And, if I may assume, you stood up and led them?"_

"_You're correct. Following shortly after was the total overhaul of the old governmental structure – already in broken shambles and miserable shape after the battle, took less than a small nudge to collapse entirely. The void of leadership called for an instant replacement, and although the council tried their very best to reign over the crowd, they didn't – couldn't – win the mecha's trust over again, not after all the damage they've done."_

"_So… let me guess, they've got no other choice than to hand the position over to you?"_

"_I wish it was that simple." _Prowl powered his cerulean optics back on and slouched even lower on the recliner, his backstrut almost folding over itself. _"If they couldn't grab the platium bolt, then they wouldn't let anyone else have the chance to. Given that the mecha's trust was already in my servos, the path to total dominance would still require the actual transition of power, like any other major transitions in history had gone down. Yet, rather than putting up a fight, they went and renounced beforehand, which could only mean-_

"_They have one final trick up their sleeves." _Soundwave concluded, shivers running along his spines reminding him that eventhough Cybertronians were no mere organic creatures, they weren't immune to the sparkless, cruel schemes their own kind was capable of.

"_Exactly. Even without your ability, I could tell they would try and blame me for all the casualties and collateral damage, with the reasoning that I was the one to coordinate the battle and led us to our own failure, a fact that I was forced to enclose while facing off multiple hostile forces from within our ranks. And the worst part, is knowing when it will be going down, but not having a single way to prevent it, because it's the truth." _Prowl then unsubspaced a datapad hand-out and extended it high in the air for him to read its content.

Upon inspecting the first letters printed on the digital screen, his every instinct came alive with such unadulterated intensity only to hint at him that no good could possibly come out of it.

||Coronation countdown: 1 megacycle left||

||Exercise your civil rights and be a part of the change by attending this historical moment as the leadership of our planet is transcended to the next generations of thriving Cybertronians, representative by the one and only hero||

||Prowl, our last faith and hope||


	5. Chapter 5 - Part 5

PART 5

#Orion

Shrugging awake, the familiar scenary hit his still rendering optics like a painful reminder of what he had become as of late.

Going into hiding sincerely, whole-heartedly, honestly _suck_. Well, at least better that than stay and let your own faction dismantle you. Though in fact, if he was being completely truthful with himself, his location of choice was ingenious, if not outright godlike wise. Going back to the old mining complex where the Autobots took shelter in their hard time, and also the very place where the leader of the Decepticons himself came from? A free immunity to both factions he'd helped created, if he do say so himself. The Autobot's old Energon synthesizer was fortunately still in working order by the time he got here, and with a bit of tinkering, it started producing Energon enough for him to survive, if barely. Of course, it still tasted like the dilluted, impure and raw slag that it was all those time ago, but at least he could refuel, and that in itself was enough of a miracle from Primus. Still, ecstacy couldn't convey the happiness he felt when Ratchet found him; he was struggling to combat a common virus that seemed so much like a terminal disease at the moment, and just the notion of seeing a familiar faceplate warmed him spark, even more so when he realized the mech wasn't in the least bit mad at him. What started out as a secret between him and the medic soon spread to those few in their immediate circle of trust – Ironhide, then Prowl, and finally a mysterious mech called Jazz. Still tending to their official duties, the mecha gave him occasional visits bringing news of the world outside to his isolated den – and usually a bottle or two of supplies they managed to steal. Though not much, Orion was eternally grateful; these tiny things were the only barrier between him and absolute insanity, trapped inside walls without anything to concentrate his focus on but his own guilt would've had that effect on even the strongest of mecha, let alone the one whose ancient, wise and ridiculously powerful counterpart had just been snuffed out of existence.

Barely a crawling mess, he sleepily scrambled to the edge of the flat slab of stone – the makeshift berth of a fugitive mech, condemned by the mistrust of his own followers. Releasing a hiss of air in a long vent that bore much resemblance to what the organics would identify as a sigh, he made a beeline for the washrack – a fancy term for a bucket of ice cold water, he knew, but his historian past couldn't resist pointing out the fact that such luxuries weren't affordable to even the most noble mecha of the Iron Age.

Huh, a snort of bitter irony escaped his vocalizer before he could clamp it shut. He could almost picture the mental voice of his other – was it really just another side himself? – sneering at him for how helpful that specific piece of information is in their current predicament.

"Shut it, wouldn't you? It isn't like I can just give away that knowledge in exchange for a bottle of polisher, you know." He snapped, but to his utter dismay, and soon following after, annoyance – at thin air. Frag it. Was he really doing all that babbling-to-self again? He thought he'd finally managed to get over it.

The Matrix whirling presence inside his chassis proved otherwise. Knowing that the relic, despite how ancient and powerful it may be, couldn't simply just offer an answer to every existential question bubbling up in the inside of his throat, he dropped the issue and just gave up even bother trying to "process his emotions" – Ratchet's words exactly, not his – for the cycle. Pulling the blinds over with a bit more force than necessary, for no apparent reason considering he was the sole resident of the cave anyway, the mech shoved every bit of annoyance – and pretty much any other emotion that had resurfaced – down into the pit that he had learnt to accompany with his pulsing spark and the relic that resided over it. After all, why couldn't the holy and sacred Matrix of Leadership itself handle its share of the messed-up bullslag inside his helm?

* * *

Orion stepped out of his so-called "shower stall" less than 5 klicks later, cursing vehemently at the freezing water while rushing to the firepit as quick as possible. Hauling a few chopped logs into the dying pink flame, he sat and warmed himself as it returned to its orange-red glorious state, wondering with irony how his life couldn't just return to its meant-to-be track with some wood and kindle. Oh, right. He still needed the ignition spark. His logic circuits weren't affected in the battle, but somehow it kept giving him strange ideas these cycles, all for the sole purpose of tormenting himself for a guilt that seemed so far away and distant, like in another lifetime.

He shuddered as a particularly cold draft whipped his faceplate. It was a cold cycle, and he would kill just to bring up the temperature a little. Hoping beyond a miracle he wondered if there was anyway to bring the fire a bit closer, he was genuinely ecstatic when his logic circuits decided to stop malfuntioning to come up with a half decent idea.

And that was how a joor later, Ratchet entered the cave through the secret entrance to find Orion in the weirdest position of trying to light a fire to a wooden stick protruding from his helm-chassis joint. If it was any ordinary cycle, he would reprimand the mech of his stupidity and let him tend to his own business while venturing forth into the kitchen area and unload whatever supplies he was able to "borrow" that cycle. And he probably would, if he hadn't noticed some hidious burn marks across Orion's ridiculously large and heavily-built frame.

"Stop this nonsense at once! Orion, what in the name of Primus are you even attempting to achieve?" Dumping the content of his subspace pocket on the ground without a second care, he shot to the mech's side in an instance, his mood darkened into a grumpy fit matching his reputation, a fit that would surely be unleashed after he could stop the mech from hurting himself first, that is.

Pulling with all his might, the stick came off in a sickening crack, and the mech's helm lolled to a side, hanging lifeless and sprained from its socket, but Ratchet was accustomed to the sight after the umpteenth time of going into panic and distress over having possibly displacing his friend's helm – or practically any other body part that he could exercise his stupidity upon, really. Less than a moment later, it realigned itself with a soft pop, and Orion was blinking at him with that innocent, I-don't-have-any-idea-what-misery-I-was-causing-you-this-time look.

"Ehrm…

"Shut up. Not a word. Look at your servos and the stick for clue, if that's what you're wondering." He snapped, turning back to the pile of various items dumped unceremoniously on the ground a few nanoklicks ago and began sorting them out. In truth, he had no idea the Matrix would remodel Orion so entirely, but even then he'd thought the extra bulk and extra-large hydraulic pumps in the new frame was all for show; a display of power and dominance befitting that of a Prime, and beyond that no further. Yet, the mech surprised him over and over again with how invulnerable he'd become, he was kind of made immortal, in a way. Or at least it seemed that way to Ratchet after observing first-hand the mech setting himself of fire, breaking his own spine, smashing his helm into a boulder and most terrifying of all, ruptured his own fuel tanks, without leaking a single droplet of Energon. Either his self-repair was accelerated beyond the speed of light, other than that he had no idea how the mech could still survive with the ammount of crazy stunts he'd pulled in self-harm.

"Slag! I didn't even realize you coming in!" Orion quickily put out a small flame still flickering on one of the sticks jammed into his hip joint.

"Figured. You couldn't distinguish from a cyberfox and a turbokitty if put side-by-side, with that dellusional dettachment thing going on inside your helm." Aware of how harsh his words may have come off as, the mech soften his tone a notch. "Just… come here and refuel, will you?" He offered the mech a canister of mass-produced Energon, optics apologetic and servos outstretched. Taking the can, Orion settled over a lump of soft clay he once claimed to be his favourite armchair and began to empty its content vigorously down his vent.

" I don't want to break it down to you like this, but… You're in a sorry state, you know?" The medical officer moved to the far side of the spacious cargo-turned-living-room to work on the Energon synthesizer, his helm halfway turned but not fully meeting Orion's optics, as if reluctant to face the patient who he'd just diagnosed with a terminal disease. Fighting to hide the sudden tremble in his vocalizer, the mech drew strength from ages of professional experience as he disguised his concern as best as possible, if not for Orion's then for his own sake. "These… episodes, if you will, are becoming more and more frequent. You retain remarkably little memory of these occurrences, and I don't have to remind you of how devastating the consequences that these incidents have on you, both mentally and physically." Orion rubbed at a phantom pain in a spot under his abdominal plates and slightly above his pelvis area, the imaginary metallic pine still impaling his tanks sticking out of his frame half visible from his perspective. Despite how gruesome that cycle was, the damage it left wasn't as much physical as it was mental, as the trauma still haunted him until now. Try as he might to forget the event altogether, Ratchet's rhythmic count and Ironhide's firm grip on the stick remained deeply inprinted in his databanks as if it was still the previous cycle that he decided stabbing himself with a titanium beam in the gut was a good idea. Fortunately, the actual removal of the instrument was too painful for his pain grid to register without sending his neural cortex into emergency shutdown, so his memories quickly ended before the count of "1" could expire. The medic himself wasn't that fortunate, however, if his servos tightly wound on the edge of the desk and his optics, glued to the patch of unpainted metal on Orion's frame and intense enough to drill a hole into it, was of any indication. "You are _harming_ yourself, Orion. I told you that someone should stay with you the whole time-

"I'm not a fragging sparkling, for Primus's sake! I don't slagging need a sparklingsitter! I'm the supposed-to-be Prime, frag it!" He snapped. They've had this same conversation many times, and never had one ended without either him riling up or Ratchet angrily stepping away. Deep down, he understood the medic's concern, and he felt the same way mostly, but his pride just couldn't have it. Lost, destroyed and utterly beaten he may be, but his pride remaining intact was the only thing he could shut his optics and pretend to be truth without the mental voice of the other calling him out on being a piece of bullslag. He knew his current situation of winding up in a cave somewhere in the middle of the wild and far away from civilization could hardly account for being in the least bit honourable, but his psychology worked in a strange way, and quite frankly, it made sense for it to. The ammount of pain he'd endured that off-cycle had turned him into a different mech, true to Megatron's words, a shadow of who he was supposed to be, and simply not deactivating right then and there had been enough of a miracle in itself. Yet, what seemed like a blessing, a second chance to redeem his mistakes, another go at leadership at the moment, only revealed its ugly, twisted face later on as an endless torment, filled with pain and misery. If he ever heard of the term living on borrowed time before, then he sure was experiencing its service first-hand, and it definitely _wasn't _pleasant.

"Prime my aft! You are going to deactivate yourself one of these cycles, I'm telling you. It would be all too simple; you doing something more stupid or me and the crew arriving a bit later than usual. And you even had no idea how it happened, or any ounce of control over it either; one moment your impulse acts up, that'll be all it takes…"

The mech dropped his sentence in the air not because he wasn't willing to vocalize the rest, but because the grimace flashing on Orion's faceplate for an astroklick. An astroklick too long.

"Orion! Taik to me! Is that the spark pain, again? And don't even bother trying to lie, because you're the worst liar ever, and I learnt how to pick up your bullslag for Primus knew how long ago." Ratchet walked to his side, a bit shorter than him even when he's doubled over. Back in the Autobot cycles, they would nitpick and grouch over the height difference, eventhough Orion was barely an inch or two above him. Those were definitely the simpler cycles, when there wasn't a severed sparklink looming over their helms.

"I told you already. They come and go unexpectedly, but not for more than an astroklick each." Orion pointedly omit the specific piece of information regarding the pain level. He was certain hearing an "out of this world, like feeling yourself being torn into two but instantly sewn together again in a fragment of an astroklick" wouldn't do the grumpy old medic any good. At least it wasn't as painful as the forced spark split, but Orion couldn't tell Ratchet or anyone that. Long ago he'd determined it'd be one of those secrets he'd brought with him down to the pit of deactivation, and he had no intention of changing his mind anytime soon.

"Orion! How many times have I told you that a pain of any sort is NOT something to underestimate? Especially a spark pain, for crying out loud!" The mech practically jumped in aghast. "The spark is the most vulnerable part in a mech's frame, and if something was to happen to it, you would go out in a flash, dumbaft! No frame remodelling or medic magic can help you with a spark disease, because it's internal and even so, it's highly risky to just meddle with it. If so much as a tendril of your spark energy is entangled, your entire spark can extinguish like a blown candle. And even if you're lucky, you wouldn't be yourself anymore. The spark _is_ you, in its most raw and pure form; you can become an entirely different mech, go insane, or lose bodily functions, to name a few." As if only realizing how insensitive he was, the mech shut himself quickly, but the damage is already done; Orion's helm is slouched somewhere between facing the ground and his peds, staring at an invisible stain across the floor, as if it was the most intricate thing in the world worthy of his attention.

"Ratch? Am I truly… insane? I don't feel like myself anymore. Heck, I hardly _feel_ at all these cycles. I walk around and do my routine, but not because I need to, but because I'm stuck in this… helpless loop. My frame is on autopilot most of the time, and when I'm actually conscious, awake and aware of my actions, I find myself aimless, without a drive, a will, an urge. Am I broken?" He voiced his desperation to the medic, who only looked away, unable to bear the weight of his look. Little did he know that was just an oversimplicated, underemphasized and elaborately minimized part of the truth, the living hell he had been forced to endure every moment of his existence, ever since the moment Megatron burnt Iacon to the ground.

"Let's not jump to conclusions here. What you went through was traumatic, and I don't just mean a guilty conscience traumatic. You took a blow to your belief, your idealism, and your _life_, for what it's worth. Everyone needs time to heal, and that kind of trauma isn't something you'd walk away from without but a scratch. Cut yourself some slack. Besides, you fragging _survived_ a severed sparklink; you think that was easy? You gotta be damn stubborn for simply refusing to deactivate; I saw with my own optics how your spark flickered into oblivion three times on that operation table before emerging again out of thin air as if it was always there."

The mention brought forth a memory file he never wanted to relive. The pain of the sparklink being strained over the distance took a toll on his physiques; he couldn't keep his Energon down without purging his tanks every klick at least twice, and everyone was worried sick for him. He couldn't even worry; the pain kept him under the major of the time, and whenever he was conscious he was in a trance of some sort, always mumbling Megatron's name over and over like repeating a mantra. He wore himself down to exhaustion, and had it not been for the Matrix sheltering his spark inside its intense grip it would have probably exterminated itself in an attempt to escape his frame and follow the strained sparklink back to its soulmate. Whether or not Megatron's side of the bond was suffering through the same condition was beyond anyone's knowledge, but the Decepticon's absolute radio silence remained an enigma. Finally, on the end of the fifth cycle, Ratchet could stomach it no longer, and the crew agreed to take a bet and performed an open surgery on his spark. It was risky, as was any untested hypothesis found archived in ancient documents of unknown origin, but taking action was better than the alternative of standing still watching his life flicker out little by little. The tricky part – in Ironhide's narrative, of course – was to remove the Matrix from the spark without damaging both, while they've already clung onto each other firmly. If his exaggerated excitement was any part truthful, then his spark had already attempted to exterminate – whether the bond or itself remained uncertain – by disentangling into strings of pure spark energy, but the Matrix served as an anchor for every stray tendril projected out of the main body, and by the time they removed his chassis plating the relic had already been in the process of devouring nearly a quarter of his spark. Since there was no possible way of extracting the device without risk of ripping apart his spark entirely, Ratchet just take a wild bet and snap a bunch of spark tendrils that stretched the longest, reasoning that there was no other reason for them to unless under the compulsion of the bond, and apparently releasing the most foul string of curse in the meantime. Somehow, the relic realized what he was up to, and for once actually made itself helpful as it shifted around in a way that put certain strings into the medic's servo. He had no clue what to do then, and the rest was even more clueless if possible, so they pretty much jumped at the opportunity to leave the responsibility of mending spark strings to the relic and just followed its lead. It was pretty scary to hear others retell of the story of how they messed with your inside to save your life without a single idea what they were doing, and the fact that they took pointers from a millenia-old relic served little to reassure him, but at least the spark pain was over and his spark was still pulsing, so that was all that mattered, or at least that was what he'd told himself time and time again in hope that one cycle he could actually fool himself into believing it. Until the pain started reappearing, for that matter.

"What if I never heal? What if the sparkbond and everything else just leave a permanent scar? That this is and will be the best that I can reach from now on, and the deterioration is just inevitable?" He raised the final question that would end their discussion, and like every other time this one was no exception.

"I don't know Orion, I honestly don't know. What we tried was experimental at best. Whether it worked out properly or not, and whether these symptoms are inevitable, or how long they'll last if not permanent… I don't have a single fragging clue." He finished lamely, with a soft shake of his helm. "But hey, don't go beating yourself up for this. It isn't by any means your fault, you clear? If anything, then at least you still have us. We'll deal with this together and come out on top, like we've always done back in the good old cycles, ya hear?" The mech allowed a spark of hope and positivity to flare within, actively radiating the emotion within the confine of his EM field, knowing the Matrix would pick up and sympathize with it under such close proximity. What he didn't know, however, was how the sentiment was totally lost on the numb Orion.

As if on cue, the moment their conversation reached an end, a series of distinctive clanks of metal on hard rock signaled the arrival of a certain ex-Royal Guard turned faithful companion, and a nanoklick later the mech was waddling through the entrance built too small for his bulk, clutching servoful of various supplies on both limbs.

"Frag the miners and their underweight built for constructing such an undersized entrance… no wait, there're filthy and disgusting, probably not. But this mining complex could definitely use a make-over-

"Ironhide!" The annoyed medic rushed over to help him unload, but not without grouching over his incompetence. "What on Cybertron are you carrying, and what does Primus even grant you a subspace pocket for?"

"Aah, I see now, so that's what this weird drive on my servos are called. And for your information, these are all useful nourishment! Primus knows how much of them that sad excuse of a Prime would need, so I took the liberty of taking extra. After all, more couldn't hurt, could it?"

"High-grade is your idea of nutritious supplement? Seriously? Are you slagging itching for another wrench?" The medic quickly confiscated all the liquor before the mech had any chance to hide them. Seemingly not affected by being called out on his obvious lie, the mech kept unloading inventory onto the makeshift desk without a hint of shame in his actions.

"Chill, mech, chill! I promise you'll be on top this off-cycle, okay?" Wiggling a raised optical ridge at the increasingly aggravated medic, the mech carried on unabashed with his less than appropriate reference, bringing a red hue to his counterpart's faceplate, in embarassment or anger yet unknown, despite the fact their Energon was mostly blue in colour.

"Funny thing. Eventhough I'm sure it was way out of context, Ratchet mentioned the exact same thing earlier." Orion decided to notify the oblivious mech of his neglected presence after the topic of their banter took a turn for the more intimate territory, enjoying devilishly the scandalized expression on the grumpy medic's now beet red faceplate.

"Orion! How's my favourite Public Enemy #1 doing?"

"Ironhide! How many times must I tell you not to insensitively refer to him with that title?"

"Relax, mech. Not everyone prefers their dish of truth sugar-coated and pain-proof."

"It's okay, really. I appreciate learning something new about the world outside from time to time. Even if that new only shows how despicable I am in mecha's optics, apparently." Orion snorted with a bitter sense of irony.

As the peacemaker that Ratchet is, he quickly chimed in. "Now now, it's not as bad as it seems-

"Oh, but it _is_. Mecha demanding to see your decapitated helm on a pike paraded around Iacon? Old news. Now they're on to demanding for your frame to be hung on the racks in the background on the coronation-

"Ironhide!"

"Oops. Secrets revealed, I guess?" He grinned sheepishly at the medic, who might as well was frothing saliva from his vent with how angry he was. A resonating bang of wrench-on-helm impact was the consequence of his slip-up, but the damage was already done.

"Coronation? What coronation?" Bemused, Orion inquired.

"The remnants of the Council were pulling some strings out there, so it really wasn't the mob's doing, really. Or any of us, for that matter." Ratchet evaded lamely, but wasn't successful in his attempt to throw Orion off the track.

"Ratchet? Tell me, please. I deserve to know what the Council is plotting, as well as my possible hanging and the upcoming coronation. You know this is something large, I can't just pretend it's not happening and give two hoots about it."

"It's not really that big, and nobody is getting hung under my watch, I assure you. But the rest, well, I believe it would be more befitting to hear from the mech being coronated himself." On Primus's whimsical will, a black and white Enforcer walked in just as Ratchet's statement come to an end.

"Orion, there's something you need to know."


	6. Chapter 5 - Part 6

PART 6

#Plot, sweat and tears

It was cruel.

Eventhough such a scheme required public exposure, they didn't necessarily have to set up a coronation to elect him, only to bring him down that very cycle.

But most sadistic of all, mecha from all over came. They came to watch their next leader arise, to see the only one who had been vying for their rights, to get them under a shelter and provide them a cube of Energon in desperate times when everyone else either turned their helm in the other direction or kept everything they could for themselves. To see the worthy one, the deserving one, the one entrusted with their faith, hope, and future being empowered, being given the means to achieve such.

They came to observe their future being fixed and salvaged, to be led out of the misery and back into the better cycles, awaiting that moment when Cybertron would once thrive again. They came to plant and water the seed of their hope, within the fertile patch of soil that is the competent, fair and justified Chief Officer.

But instead, they could only get their dreams crushed, their spirits extinguished, and their courage squashed. They came only to face disappointment, fear, chaos, and despair. They came to be reminded of the family they've lost, the comrades they've bid farewell, and the home they could no longer find sanctuary within. They came, but not to be salvaged, but to be broken. And that, eventhough brutal, inhumane, savage and atrocious, was the only mean through which the Council can achieve their goals. It was the only way they can stamp out the flickering candle that was Prowl once and for all.

Yet, in a twisted, diabolical sense, it was briliant. Playing with emotions is an art, and those who can master it are the true reincarnation god himself. Manipulate one's will, and they follow mindlessly like a puppet, useless after their strings get entangled. Twist one's hopes and fears, and they shall act accordingly within one's whim, but unsatisfied they shall remained; a spark of conflict would be all it takes before a revolution broke out. Add a touch of despair to break their spirits, and they would be dampened, becoming the mere lifeless, hollow shell, a shadow of the full potential they could now never achieve. But instead of all that, just a tiny dab of anger, of resentment, of a genetically-passed hatred that ran deep under one's veins and cripple under one's skin at the mere sight of their target, and they would be throwing themselves into the fire just to get to it; they would offer complete submission and dominance over to those who can promise to bring them the closure, to end the target. But even the most raw and profound agony wouldn't outlast the all-powerful and almighty current of time itself, wouldn't remain anchored down while the flow of history kept constantly nudging at it, rushing relentless waves over and drowning it under the surface, forcing it to move forward or be eradicated as evolution would never allow the unchanging, unadapting, unfit and flawed a chance at survival. Try as it might, it could never leave a mark on the bank of the historic river as it got carried away with the time currents.

But with betrayal, everything's possible. The battle itself was a mark, a pause in the growth of society, a serene current that slowed down enough to present an opportunity, and they took it well. Planting the seed of betrayal within those mecha, they made sure Prowl – the one mech who they could ever trust and love in the new era – would forever be tinted in history as the mech who acted "fake", who only attempted to redeem his sinned soul by offering the survivals a sip after he lost the whole cube to the enemies' servos. With the betrayal of trust, all of their compassion for the mech would simply become shapeless pieces of chopped log, their original self – their shapes, their sizes, their colour – turned oblivion as thay all would become fuel to be burned inside the rage furnace, empowering the hatred that would push the mech beyond any border of redemption. And coupled with the recent pain of the lost, the furnace would remain fiery warm for later generations of Cybertronians yet to be conceived, learning of him only through the recordings of history as the traitor of their species, the one who led their race to failure. And on top all of that, the Council is the one to provide learning materials, to chop up the logs and haul them inside the fire, to spark the first match of conflict and help spread the rage to the kindle of meticulously-planned provocation. When everyone lose their trust in Prowl, they would turn to the Council and kneel to offer their submission, rewarding the puppet master with every single ounce of power and domination they've desired too greatly.

Briliant, if sparkless. Still, the artistic touch is undeniable; it is beautiful in its own twisted, cruel and sadistic way.

Soundwave found himself firmly resolved with all fibre of his being not to allow the Council to get through with their evil scheme. Yet, not admitting it to himself, a tiny fragment of him appreciated the irony of how the mech who betrayed him is now faced with betrayal as his own downfall.

* * *

His current objective was the council – otherwise known as the Enforcer's board of leadership, so as not to be mistaken with the Cybertronian Council, who would in turn receive their fair share of telepathic reconnaissance, just not today.

His creations had all been enlisted in various smaller operations, though nothing too serious, he was certain that they could handle themselves perfectly. In a way, it was how Prowl took his perpetual concern of them and their safety off his mind, allowing him to fully focus on his task. He knew as much, with or without reading the mech's thoughts, and either way he was relieved; this is the real chance for him to explore the boundaries of his ability and perhaps push them even further without the usual gang occupying most of his mental space.

So, here he was, pushing a refreshment cart into the large conference room where they seemed to never leave, trying to be as inconspicuous and anonymous as any mech without a faceplate could possibly be. Of course the cubes on his cart were all bugged; as soon as a mech touched even but one, Prowl's nanites would discreetly carry out its duty of clinging on to the unfortunate victim and staying there for good, or at least until the mech took a shower anyway. Until then, all of the information they disclose would be his to acquire and plan upon accordingly. That was, only if they actually took the drink. Primus knew how paranoid these mecha were, they probably wouldn't risk touching something an unknown caterer brought.

His time was limited; he had only a brief window of about a klick from pushing the cart all the way around the room before he must leave or risk raising suspicion. During the alloted time, he must make use with his ability, sweep into these minds to acquire any bit and piece of information available, then retreat just in the same fraction of a split-astroklick before they could notice his presence there; he had practiced the routine with Prowl over hundreds of time, and after each session the mech always reprimanded him for his less-than-subtle prying around the mech's mind, notifying the host of his arrival and departure, as well as his tampling, especially with how disheveled and disarrayed their thoughts became after his interception. Such would be critical to these mecha; alerting them that not only does a mech with his capability exist, but are also within their grasp, would paint a target on his back. Endangering his creations.

In no reality would he allow that to happen.

Not just because of the ticking time bomb of less than a megacycle on their shoulders until the inevitable coronation would take place, or the weight of Prowl's trust, or the invaluable intel he could gather that would level the field and give them a superior servo over the Council and the board of management once and for all, but also because of the safety of his minions. Failure was not an option, nor a possibility he could contemplate.

With a grim determination in mind, he pressed forward. The closest board member sat quite a comfortable distance away, so he had enough time to compose himself and hide any evidence of his nervousness. Just as expected, the mech eyed him and his cart suspicously, refusing to take the offered refreshment, but Soundwave was already in range to allow his magic to work. So he skimmed across the mech's mind, carefully prodding at corners and alleys that the mech concealed deeply under layers of mistrust and paranoia, pulling strings of binary data straight out of the mech's processor as discreetly as possible while still striving to keep up his tempo indifferently. The time to decode and decipher would come later; now and here was not the time nor place to show hesitation.

The mech was shrinking away from his tendril, meaning he had moved past the mech a distance outreaching that of his ability range, so he retracted his tendrils as meticulously as he could. The first mech suspected nothing other than his paranoia already had, so Soundwave took that as his first success. The second mech was nearing him, and he replicated the process without a single slip. Then came the third and forth mech, sitting side-by-side, which also meant he could only choose one to infiltrate before his walking speed pushed both out of his power field. Or he could attempt…

Feeling particularly risky and experimental from earlier success, he latched his telepathy on both of them at the same time, wishing beyond all hope that it would work just as fluently as one mind at a time. To his dismay, they realized something was wrong, as they both swiveled around in their chair to look at him and his cart. His mind was running a thousand yards in one nanoklick, calculating his odds of escaping the room unscathed and where to run to in order to escape the Enforcer's pursuit, all the while sending various distress signal to his cassettes telling them to reconcile with him at Prowl's quarter immediately; but all his panic was for nothing as it turned out the two board mecha only opted for a drink each before returning to their heated gossip. So frightened was him that he had already retracted all his tendrils back, so the mech had no option but to move onwards unfazed.

The rest transpired smoothly, fortunately, leaving only a few mecha between him and the exit. They clustered into a crowd of four mecha conversing over various topics, but with his newfound confidence Soundwave no longer was reluctant. Attaching his tendrils to all four of them, he spread himself so thin that he didn't even acknowledge Rumble's response to his previous distress signal. Or the fact that one of his tendrils accidentally forwarded that message to a mech.

"Hold on, I need to answer this." The mech had said, and only then did Soundwave, with a horror, realize his mistake. In his rush to rectify his slip-up, the gave his cart a nudge, spilling the content of a cube onto the mech, attracting everyone's attention. Muttering an inaudible apologize, he made his way forward, but a servo grabbed his shoulder, stopping him dead in his track.

"Where do you think you're going? You spilt fragging Energon on me, and left like nothing happened? Who the slag do you low-grade despicable filthy piece of crap metal think you are?" He even extended a servo, raised and poised to be brought down hard on Soundwave's faceplate, but his outburst of anger proved to be the perfect window of opportunity; a distraction, one that took all of the mech's mental shield down and alllowed him full access while consuming all processor capacity into the emotion core, leaving the rest vulnerable to his telepathic touch.

So rather than dodging the blow he saw coming a mile away, he braced himself and pushed his consciousness into his link instead. By the resonating rattle and the deafening sound it was painful definitely, but the pain itself was distant and dettached, as if from an entirely different individual, which was true in a sense. He gobbled up the mech's databanks, devoured everything he could, without a second care of leaving a mess upon his departure; it wouldn't be in any much better state after that horrible wrath took its turn. He deliberately accessed the mech's private messages and copied all of his contacts along with their detailed content, took extra effort to delete Rumble's message and even blocked the transmission frequency of all of his minions just in case. When he finally loosened his grip on the angry board member, he was relatively certain there wasn't a string of data related to the mech he hadn't already acquired.

Just as the mech was delivering his final words. "… if I ever see your incompetent, stupid and trash faceplate in this office ever again, you _will_ pay for having angered me in the first place. You will replace my spotless paintjob with whatever your poorly-paying salary is worth, and I wouldn't give a second care if it sent you begging on the streets of this rusty Primus-forsaken excuse of a city, do you hear?"

He nodded silently, trying to give his best imitation of a mech truly shaken and intimidated to the core, which fortunately was good enough to pass as acceptable to the mech who sat down on his chair and muttered curses under his vent. "Fragging creepy faceless drone…

But the deed was already done. Pushing his cart out of the conference hall, Soundwave composed a message to reassure his minions, before making a direct line back to his private quarter, where Prowl was decoding everything he'd learnt of so far. For better or for worse, the job was over, and the only thing left to do was to see if the reward was worthy of all they went through.

* * *

"This is it! This is everything we need!" Exclaimed an ecstatic Prowl after going through the package that was the aggravated mech's mental composition, quite literally; he must've delved in a little too deep, because they even had a copy of the mech's sparklinghood memories.

"Suggestion: find a leverage for f-f-future e-exploitation." The tactician seemed genuinely surprised when he used his monotone emulated voice rather than the ghostly telepathic thought-projection, but he was seriously drained, and just the thought of being in a labyrinth that was a mech's processor again sent shivers up and down his backstrut. Before, the highly-concentrated fluid that ran through his veins similar to adrenaline of the organics was enough to keep him going, but the moment he entered Prowl's quarter, the exhaustion hit him full-force like a freight train carrying tonnes of titanium beams. In fact, so sluggish was him that he realized with a stutter he hadn't even deactivated his holographic disguise.

"Ah, there you are. I even thought you were compromised, with the lack of telepathy leeching off my thoughts constantly and that red feminine appearance." Prowl commented in passing before turning back to the data he was decoding. "No, but seriously, that spilt Energon? You were ingenious, servos down. Whatever we've gathered up to that point was entirely rubbish, from favourite Engex flavourings to daily routine and hobbies, it was as if half the mecha there wasn't even competent enough to keep the important thought at the forefront of their processor. But the mech you spilt on? That was General Hexagon. He was the highest-ranking board member in the room, and every important scheme and plot they had must go through with his consent. Just the content of his private messages itself was enough to sentence them all to treasonry of the highest level, really. He always had a bad temper, but using that against him? That was _astute_. How did you even know to go for him above all?"

He didn't.

His silence gave a different expression, apparently. "I clearly underestimated you. I'll be honest, just the thought of you being in the Decepticons' ranks terrified me before, but with your telepathy? It would outright spell out the Autobots' damnation. You are a force of nature." Prowl returned to his silent musing, but it wasn't anything like his usual brooding. An imperceptible phantom of a smirk resided on his stoic and indifferent faceplate in the place of the usual permanent frown. The mech was in a good mood, probably for the first time since his arrival, assumably from finally gaining the upper servo after fighting a losing battle for so long.

"Query?"

"Yes?"

"Change of behaviour, speech pattern, formality: radiant. Different from other Enforcer or Autobot comrades. Reason?" He had already perceived the difference upon entering his private suite for the first time, but the sake of politeness forbade him from satisfying his burning curiosity, at least not until the mech was no longer depressed. He could always force his way into Prowl's processor and seek the answer without the mech's knowledge – after achieving such an impossible feat he had no qualm about his ability and what he was truly capable of – but it just felt wrong betraying the mech's credence. A part of him horribly resented becoming the traitor Megatron had accused him of being, eventhough he knew it wasn't true by any means.

"I thought you knew." Prowl stopped everything he was working on to look at him, that deep, insightful and thought-provoking glance that seemingly see through every of his shield and expose the bareness of his soul, if he still had one. It almost made him self-conscious just to shake his helm, as if he was denying something sacred, saint and pure. "I _trust_ you."

It wasn't the words that he said, no, such common words merely meant little else to the telepath than a well-placed, well-crafted lie, unsincere and meaningless at best. It wasn't even the facial expression of the mech; he had grown so used to the act that many others had put up to conceal what ugly, cruel and sparkless thoughts they really harboured in silence. It wasn't even anything related to his power, the one thing he used to tear down walls of deception and pierce through layers of distrust, of cynicism or incredulity.

It was the conviction, with which Prowl had spoken himself. It was the weight of his words that brought Soundwave down from the tall and noble tower he built from millenia of emotional dettachment, of being treated cruelly and unfairly by the harsh reality that was their corrupted society, to ground level, to where Prowl stood. With open servos and limitless patience, with the endurance of a mech who simply held no grudges, not because he wasn't vengeful, but because he was _forgiving_.

In that seemingly endless moment where he stared into the mech's cerulean optics, he lost himself in the depth of that ocean. He knew Prowl went on and pointed out the difference between him and some other nameless comrades, how the experience they shared together in that bunker underneath the Sea of Rust was something explicit no working relationship could ever outweigh, and how despite having betrayed him and left him for deactivation, he still returned, meaning he was the one mech in this world capable of more compassion and forgiveness than Primus himself, and if anyone was to question the ulterior motives of the other then it was the other way around. The words rushed over him numbly, not one penetrating his audio reception.

He hadn't even realized his thought process had entangled with the mech quite literally, the two of them sharing each and every doubt, disbelief and insecurity about each one another, before it all crumpled to dust, blown away to oblivion. They talked, and thought, and talked until the off-cycle grew old, and even then they didn't stop. One could say they got carried away, but they both knew it was impossible, with one capable of depicting reality itself with his processing prowess and the other of seeing through every tug and pull of emotions to reach the bare spark underneath. Yet, they fell prey to the pull of fate, of an old connection born of a tragic incident, of a betrayal that hurt worse than the most bile of acid, of a reconciliation filled with regret and agony, and all with a serenity of acceptance. They deepened the connection to its full extend, forming a bond that would put its former self to shame.

They might have become sinners, according to some; impure under the judgemental optics of Primus, of Unicron, and with every common of sense it was righteously true. But to themselves, they became what was inevitable, what was to happen, and what had already past, as natural as the cycle of life.

On the desk, stacks of paperwork lay untouched, forgotten.


End file.
